


maybe i'm in love (maybe there's nothing to tell)

by clockworkeyes



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drabble, Duality, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Canon, Self Confidence Issues, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), look it wouldn't be jonmartin without at least some angst, the boys are yearninggggggg, this is my first fic in years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25344352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkeyes/pseuds/clockworkeyes
Summary: Martin knew he was in love with Jon when he found him slumped over his desk, snuffling into a stack of papers that had long since collapsed.Jon knew he was in love with Martin when he woke up to a life without him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 226





	maybe i'm in love (maybe there's nothing to tell)

**Author's Note:**

> WOW ok this is my first fic in years and was entirely inspired by me going on a thought spiral about Jon in Martin's jumpers. Enjoy :)
> 
> (Title from Hold It In by Jukebox The Ghost)

Martin knew he was in love with Jon when he found him slumped over his desk, snuffling into a stack of papers that had long since collapsed. 

His first thought was that those were going to be a nightmare to refile- although everything was so disorganised in this place that it probably wouldn't make all that much difference. His second thought was that this was one of the oddest things he had ever seen. The infallible Jonathan Sims, stone cold and never less than immaculately turned out, so vulnerable. Gone was the stern expression Martin had been beginning to assume was permanently affixed to his face, gone his perfect posture and tense shoulders (although he likely wasn't doing them any favours slouched like that, he idly thought). This was a Jon completely alien to Martin- one without a guard constantly up.

He looked almost serene in his sleep, peaceful as he was temporarily distracted from the mountains of work still to be completed. His face was open and calm, one cheek smushed up against the hard wood and crumpling paper. Martin surprised himself with the strong urge to reach out and touch, just once, to see if his skin was as smooth and cold as it looked, to see if this illusion of the man he thought he had understood would disappear before his eyes.

He shook himself out of his reverie. It was late; Jon was clearly in need of a proper rest, and definitely didn't need Martin of all people trying to pet him like a moron. He berated himself for the thought- honestly, what person in their right mind thinks that about their boss? Especially when that boss is so... Jon.

“Jon. Jon?” He called quietly, moving slightly closer to the desk. Nothing

“Jon.” A little louder. Still no response, save a small change in breathing and a shift of his head.

Martin reached out gently to push at his shoulder. “Jon, wake up.”

The man blinked slowly, wincing at the light of the office as he regained consciousness. He moved his head weakly to glance at the sensation on his shoulder, before sitting up quickly as he came back to reality.

Martin removed his hand quickly from where it had been lingering, blushing. Stupid, he thought to himself, you've seen how little he interacts with you, of course he wouldn't be comfortable with you touching him. 

“Mm. Martin. What did you want?” He said, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Oh, ah, I was about to head out for the night, when I saw your light was on, so I was coming in to say bye, but you were asleep, so I um, I thought I'd wake you up, you know so you can get home safe. I mean, the tube will still be running for a while, it's not that late, but you know, better not chance it, or anything...” He trailed off, face flushed hot as he rambled. Something about that look that Jon always gave him meant he could never just stop talking even when he was screaming at himself to; always had to go on for too long, over-correct, end up looking like a right twat. Stupid Martin, always had to stick his foot in his mouth; Jon clearly thought he was incompetent and useless, glaring as he stumbled and stuttered his way through sentences. Stupid. 

“Oh. Well, ah, thank you. I should probably finish up here, but then I'll be going.”

“What were you working on?”

“I've been sorting through newspaper articles about disappearances in Edinburgh in the late 2000s, trying to see if any of the circumstances match the Watts statement. Little luck so far,” Jon sighed, eyes darting down to the sheets scattered across his desk.

“Well in that case there's not much use in continuing tonight, is there? You won't be getting anything done that you couldn't do tomorrow, after some proper rest,” Martin said. “Unless I'm overstepping, sorry,” he hurried to add “but they're probably locking up soon and the archives can't be a comfortable place to spend the night, so I just thought-”

“No, no, you're right. No use working myself into the ground I suppose. Thank you, Martin.”

“Oh, um, you're welcome! I'll just, I'll be going then, so, um, goodnight!” He hurried towards the door, not wanting to intrude on Jon any more than he already had.

“See you tomorrow.”

As he walked up the stairs, he replayed the sound of that in his head. His name had never sounded that soft in Jon's voice, and he was having intense difficulty reconciling that sleepy, open man with his tightly-wound superior. He found himself pondering if Jon always sounded like that when he woke up, voice lower, words less clipped, less precise. He pictured Jon lifting a head off a pillow to greet him in that gentle, comfortable tone, with bed hair and baggy pyjamas, and felt a tight, hot fizzing in his chest that was all too familiar.

“Oh.” He breathed quietly to himself, as he stepped out into the glow of the London evening, his mind lingering on soft-looking skin and rumpled hair and dark brown eyes meeting his as a Bournemouth accent murmurs sweetly.

Oh, indeed.

–

Jon knew he was in love with Martin when he woke up to a life without him.

It had taken some adjusting to his new role after the coma. He felt increasingly… lost. He was missing six months of his life, and he had changed in ways he knew all too vividly but still didn't truly understand, and he had nobody he could talk to about it. Melanie had taken to screaming at him whenever he was in her vicinity, her rage burning hotter and more vicious than ever as she felt the betrayal of his absence. Georgie didn't want to talk to him, and Jon didn't blame her after what he'd put her through, but her absence stung bitterly- the ache of an old wound he thought had healed, but that smarted fresh when he remembered her smile. Helen was sympathetic, but she seemed convinced they were the same, and Jon found himself angry with her for it- she understood him better than anyone, and yet didn't get it at all. Basira had made it all too clear they were colleagues only, the mistrust lingering between them almost tangible as he Saw her look at him from time to time, curious and cold. It was quite sad that she was probably the closest friend he had at the moment. Tim had hated him by the end, and he was quite certain that Daisy had never been able to stand him, but even if things had been different they were dead now. Dead because he lead them into that cursed place, and that simply brought more hot waves of guilt down on him. 

And Martin was gone.

Jon felt his loss more acutely than he'd ever taken notice of his presence, and felt painfully guilty about it, because the fact of the matter was that he truly hadn't realised how much of a constant Martin had been until he left, and the very foundations of Jon seemed to shake and crumble.

From Jon's first day he had been there, overbearing and apologetic and with absolutely none of the skills for his position, warm and calming and always ready with a cup of tea and a simple hello. Jon knew that he had once found this intensely irritating and unprofessional, but found himself longing deeply for that comfort, that familiarity. Everything had changed so much in his time at the archives, and now the last remnant of a life before entities and avatars and apocalypses had finally given up on Jon, and he wanted to scream and sob and mourn. Mourn the lives he'd ruined, mourn a friend whose face he couldn't even remember and another whose bitter smile he knew he'd never forget, mourn a love that he'd realised far too late.

He let his thoughts carry him without purpose to document storage, to a small box kicked against a wall, to the thick woollen jumper lying inside. It was dusty, and huge, and it had stopped smelling of him long ago, but it was Martin's, and Jon clutched it like a lifeline as he lay down on the cot and stared at the wall with a chasm growing in his chest. 

Later, as Jon found himself crushed by dirt and earth, lost in the sea of bodies Below, he ran his fingers along the cables of that jumper and felt himself pulled home.

–

The two of them are curled up as much as they can be in the backseat, sat in the car park of a service station. Martin burns his tongue on cheap coffee in an attempt to stay alert as Jon dozes on his shoulder, not quite asleep but hardly awake.

He glances down at Jon, at his messy hair and serene expression, and is struck by the fact that he really can reach out and touch this time. He brushes his hand softly over Jon's cheek, and Jon glances up at him with a smile that sets off fireworks in Martin's chest. It is by no means new information but he is struck all over again by just how fiercely he loves this ridiculous man.

“Martin. I never said back there, it was all so overwhelming, but you know… you know that I,” he breaks off, with a slightly pained expression, and Martin understands all too well the effort it takes to get those words out, even when you mean them more than anything. “You know I do too, don't you?”

Martin wraps an arm around Jon and strokes up and down the thick wool of a jumper he idly recognises as his as Jon's head falls back onto his shoulder. He takes another sip of terrible coffee and picks at the sticker on the cup as he wonders what is next for the two of them, and finds it doesn't actually matter to him as long as he has Jon alongside him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”


End file.
